Kept You Apart
by EOlivet
Summary: What Branson saw of Matthew and Mary's relationship throughout the years. A prelude to the Matthew/Tom 3x01 bromance.


Disclaimer: The characters described herein are the property of Julian Fellowes and ITV. No copyright infringement is intended.

Timeline: 1x04 through after the Christmas Special.

A/N: Inspired by the argument that Branson being so pro-M/M in 3x01 was unrealistic. Please forgive any anachronisms or inaccuracies about cars and time, and slight liberties taken with canon.

* * *

Branson pulled up to the front of the house – having shoved the rest of his meal down after Mrs. Hughes had informed him, "Mr. Crawley will need a lift back home."

The fellow was awfully quiet – like he was lost in his thoughts half the time, but this was the first time Branson had ever driven him back from the house without his mother.

There were shadows at the doorway, and then finally the door was pushed open and Matthew Crawley stepped outside. It was rather odd, because it was late and he wasn't dressed for dinner – but he was almost stumbling to the car.

"Good evening," Branson said, opening the driver's side as he prepared to hop out to open the door, when Matthew opened it for himself.

He wasn't about to protest, and simply started the car again, driving back in silence. When he glanced in the mirror, he saw Matthew almost slumped against the seat, the oddest expression on his face – like some kind of elated shock.

When the car pulled up at Crawley House, Branson waited a moment – thinking perhaps Matthew would let himself out. But a brief look in the mirror, and he wasn't quite sure if Matthew had realized the car had stopped.

He got out of the car, slamming the door before Matthew suddenly opened his own door and began hurrying up the pathway.

It was then that Branson spotted the man's hat and gloves in the backseat. "Mr. Crawley!" he called – and the man turned round in time to see Branson approaching with his forgotten things.

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry," Matthew apologized again, taking his hat and gloves. "I must have— sorry."

Branson headed back to the car, but watched until Moseley opened the door – not exactly trusting Matthew to make it in under his own power.

* * *

"Branson, we're going to stop by the Dower House on our way into Ripon," Cora explained, as she made herself comfortable in the backseat.

"Very good, your Ladyship." Branson nodded, as he closed the door after Mary and Edith.

"Why was Papa in such a hurry to leave this morning?" Edith wanted to know, as Branson shifted the car into gear.

"He's meeting Matthew to go over some plans for the cottages," Cora explained.

"Oh, is it a _weekend_?" Mary's tone held a tinge of mockery. "I hadn't noticed."

Cora seemed to ignore her daughter. "While we attempt to smooth things over with your grandmother after last evening's display. Really, I'm not sure what possessed your father to attempt to speak to Matthew behind her back."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "This is Granny you're speaking of."

Cora's brow furrowed. "In any event, I trust that Matthew got off alright."

He could see Edith's eyebrows raised even from where he was seated. "What would Mary know of it?" Edith sounded almost affronted.

It seemed difficult for Mary to contain her smirk. "Apparently a bit more than you do."

"Girls, please," Cora's voice was particularly harsh. "Can we have just _one_ afternoon where you two just get on without any of this foolishness?"

Branson shook his head as he kept driving.

* * *

He glanced up at the clock, realizing the lateness of the hour. "Better see what's keeping them," he muttered, rising from the table. Anna and Bates were in a particularly good mood this evening, though Thomas and O'Brien were nowhere to be found.

Climbing into the car, he drove up and round the pathway. There was indeed someone at the door, but it didn't look like a man who was waiting for a car.

Suddenly, William came barreling out the door. "It's just gone half ten," Branson explained, before the lad could get a word in edgewise. "I've never known him to stay much past nine. Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes, of course," William said, hurriedly. "Only…Mr. Crawley has left. He said not to bother you with the car. I thought they'd have told you downstairs."

"No…nobody told me. " Branson shook his head, with a sigh. His eyes traveled back to the door, where he could now see the outline of who definitely appeared to be Lady Mary. "Does Lady Mary need the car?" he asked – though he knew it was preposterous for anyone to be out so late.

William glanced back at the door, whereupon Lady Mary promptly made herself scarce.

"I don't think so," William said, glancing backwards himself at the now empty foyer. "No…surely not."

With a shrug, Branson murmured, "Alright…" He shifted the car into gear, as William stepped back towards the house – disappearing into the dark as the footman disappeared into the light.

* * *

At least drink helped to calm his nerves – but he'd had so many, he'd lost count. But no matter how much he drank, he couldn't erase the image of Lady Sybil lying there, bleeding, from his mind.

"What do you mean Mr. Crawley needs the car?" Carson's voice came booming through the downstairs. His intent glare landed on Branson – as if to inform him he was quite aware of tonight's happenings in Ripon.

Branson kept his head down, the better not to draw any undue attention to himself. At least he hadn't been sacked…yet.

Mrs. Hughes was as calm as ever. "Lady Mary has asked that the car be brought round for Mr. Crawley."

This request seemed to leave the usually unflappable Carson particularly flustered. "Well, we…we can't have _him_ driving – not after tonight anyway. Has Lynch gone to bed?"

"Due respect, Mr. Carson – I don't think his Lordship would be too keen on having his heir being driven back in the governor's cart at this late hour," Mrs. Hughes gently reminded him.

Carson let out an exasperated exhale, before turning to Branson. "You are to take Mr. Crawley back to Crawley House and come straight back," he instructed Branson, sternly.

He bit back a smart response with a deferential nod. "Yes, Mr. Carson."

Matthew was as fidgety as Branson had ever seen him when he got in the car. "Good evening," Branson said, trying to keep to their customary rapport. How they had rescued Lady Sybil from harm that evening did not exactly lend itself to discussion.

They were about halfway down the path when Matthew suddenly said, "You know, I think I'll walk."

Branson stopped the car, uncertainly. "Are you quite sure, Mr. Crawley?"

"Well, it's a beautiful evening – isn't it just? Yes, I think it's a splendid night for a walk." Matthew seemed to be talking to himself more than anyone. "Oh, never mind that," he assured Branson as he put the car in park, and was going to get out to open the door.

"Are you certain you'll be alright, Mr. Crawley?" Branson clarified.

Matthew gave him the oddest smile. "Do you know – I don't think I've ever been better! Goodnight."

Branson watched him walk briskly down the path, his hands twitching at his sides.

Only when Matthew was safely on the road back to the village did Branson leave. He certainly didn't need something happening to Lord Grantham's heir after everything else that had transpired that day.

* * *

Isobel was first to get in the car, while Matthew followed a few steps behind her, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Good evening, Branson," Isobel said as she allowed herself to be helped into the backseat while Matthew followed behind her, not saying a word.

"Good evening, ma'am…Mr. Crawley." Branson returned the greeting as he shut the door.

After a few moments in silence, Matthew muttered, "I don't see why we have to eat with them. Couldn't we just…eat after them, or they could stick us downstairs. I'd much rather eat with the servants!"

Isobel glanced up, meeting Branson's eyes with a tight, apologetic smile, before turning to her son. "It might not be that bad."

"Of course you _would_ say that," Matthew grumbled, glancing out the window.

Straightening against the seat, a look of determination suddenly clouded her face. "Perhaps I will take this opportunity to give that woman a piece of my mind."

"_Mother_." Matthew's tone and look seemed to imply a previous warning, for Isobel simply huffed quietly.

In the next moment, however, she appeared to place her hand over her son's. "She will come around. I'm sure of it. You mustn't lose hope."

His sad smile held a touch of gratitude. "I wish I shared your optimism," he admitted, quietly.

Then he turned back to stare out the window, and was silent for the rest of the drive.

* * *

He was almost grateful when Lady Grantham had ordered the car the next day – eager for at least a brief respite from all the chatter about the war. Since the announcement the day prior, it seemed no one had talked of anything else.

It was quite a reduced party when he pulled up in front of the house – opening the door for Lady Grantham and Lady Edith.

Cora settled herself in the backseat, with a look over at her daughter as the car started down the drive. "Did you get a chance to speak to Sybil?"

Branson's ears perked up, but he kept his eyes on the road.

Edith sighed exasperatedly. "I asked her if she'd changed her mind, but she was quite determined to stay with_ Mary_." She made no attempt to hide her derisiveness.

"Now Edith, you must be kind. She had rather a difficult day," Cora reminded her.

"Oh, she had a _difficult day_, did she?" Edith bit out, with a quite ungraceful snort. It almost sounded as if she was holding back tears. "And what about the rest of us?"

Cora gave her a look. "I know it was trying for everyone, but I wish you'd be sensitive. You saw her – she practically ran out of the room after barely touching her dinner and she wasn't down for breakfast this morning."

"Yes, well I'm sure it's only temporary," Edith remarked. "You know Mary. She's never been one to dwell on feelings – either hers or anybody else's," she remarked, under her breath.

Her mother's smile was tight, but sympathetic. "Of course I know Mary. But I've never seen her like this, have you?"

Edith merely rolled her eyes, and turned her attention out the window. "I'm quite certain she'll recover soon enough." Then she added, a little sadly, "I suppose we all will."

Nodding, Cora sighed. She attempted a smile, but neither seemed to feel much like smiling.

* * *

It was still dark the next morning when Branson pulled up to Crawley House. He'd only received word the previous evening – "Lord Grantham has requested the car for Mr. Crawley tomorrow morning. He will be taking the six o'clock train," Carson had intoned with a level of seriousness that could only mean one thing.

He was almost surprised to see Matthew emerging from the fog that had settled over the house and the village – his determined strides belying his faint look of uneasiness.

Branson was about to say good morning, but thought better of it. He didn't suppose that was the proper thing to say at a time like this. He nodded briefly to Matthew, who gave him an acknowledging smile as – for once – the man allowed the door to be opened for him, as well as shut behind him. His fingers were too busy trembling at his sides to function.

Once they'd pulled away from the house, Matthew sat up straighter in the backseat, clearly trying to wipe all traces of emotion from his face – yet Branson couldn't help but notice how he glanced back at the house, and the church and the village as it disappeared from view.

Both men were silent until they reached the railway station – only this time, Matthew let himself out of the car.

"Safe journey, Mr. Crawley," Branson said, figuring he should at least say something.

For a moment, Matthew seemed almost shocked, before he nodded brusquely. "Thank you, " he murmured, turning quickly towards the station and disappearing into the fog before Branson even had a chance to shut the door behind him.

* * *

Branson would have never thought that the mere act of driving to Crawley House would cause such consternation and even envy among the staff – especially the younger maids. Though he drove past the house all the time, this was the first time in what seemed like years that he'd stopped there, parked and got out of the car.

Mrs. Crawley was the first out of the house, looking pleasant as ever, greeting him with a, "Good evening, Branson."

"Evening, ma'am," he said, which somehow produced an incredibly bright smile from her.

Indeed, she looked exceedingly relaxed, and as she glanced behind her, it was easy to see why.

Matthew—or rather Lieutenant Crawley as he was known now – followed her, and on his arm was who he guessed was most likely the reason for the gossip and chatter this evening.

Nodding to Branson, Matthew managed a, "Good evening."

"Welcome home, Sir," Branson said. "Good evening, ma'am," he continued, nodding to the rosy-cheeked ginger girl, whose shy smile was a definite contrast to Isobel's permanent grin.

She didn't seem to realize she was being addressed before she murmured, "Oh!" Then, with a slight laugh, she responded, "Hello."

Branson could only nod, as he closed the door behind them and got back in the car.

The girl kept her eyes out the window, as if every bit of the village they passed was an unmentionable delight. "I just can't believe it," she exclaimed, quietly.

Isobel chuckled softly, while Matthew dipped his head, giving her what seemed a fond look.

His smile soon faded when the house drew closer, and Branson could hear him clear his throat slightly.

Branson's eyes drifted back to the girl who was now staring anxiously, adoringly at Matthew.

_She's sweet_, he decided to tell the maids.

* * *

It was the middle of the night when he stumbled to his feet, pulling on his trousers and braces and walking, bleary-eyed, to the door. Again, the pounding seemed to echo in his ears – and he couldn't tell if that was the racket at the door or the headache that seemed to beat into his temples.

Flinging open the door, Branson stared in stupefied annoyance at a young lad – a hall boy perhaps – who had disturbed him. "Sorry to wake you, Mr. Branson," he apologized, "but Lady Mary has requested the car."

Branson gave a brief glance to the small clock on the table of his meager room. "Right now?" he wondered. "I'm driving Lieutenant Crawley to the station for the six o'clock train."

"Well, that's just it, Mr. Branson – you see…Lady Mary has also requested to go to the railway station."

Blinking, Branson shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "I don't suppose her Ladyship would consider riding with Lieutenant Crawley in about an hour's time?"

The boy looked distinctly apologetic, but his silence spoke for itself.

"Right." Branson sighed, glancing once more at the clock. "Please inform her Ladyship the car will be waiting for her in fifteen minutes."

Shutting the door, Branson leaned against it and sighed.

Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and ready at the door. Lady Mary was waiting outside – clutching a small handbag in front of her.

"Good morning, Branson," she greeted, as he hopped out to open the door for her. "I apologize for all the trouble I've brought down on your heads this morning."

Branson nodded. "It's no trouble at all, m'lady," he lied, gamely – though to her credit, she did at least offer him a small smile of apology as she seated herself.

Lady Mary was generally pleasant, but today she simply looked anxious. She was pale and drawn – even moreso than the earliness of the hour would suggest. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the distance, and she kept clenching her fists around the handbag in her lap.

Once the railway station came into view, she sat up even straighter in her seat. "Thank you, Branson," she said, distractedly, as he put the car in park and opened the door for her. Suddenly, the anxiety returned. "If you would…"

"I'll be back to fetch you at a quarter after six, m'lady," he supplied.

He didn't feel it was his place to mention her presence to a particularly sullen-looking Lieutenant Crawley. After all, he figured the man would find out about his surprise visitor at the railway station soon enough.

Nor was anything said at fifteen past six, when Lady Mary made her way out of the station, trying to surreptitiously wipe her reddened eyes, nodding to Branson with a vain attempt at controlling her trembling lip.

As he drove her home, he could hear the faint sniffing sounds grow less and less frequent, and by the time they'd reached the house, her tears were dry and her smile was fixed mostly back in place as she thanked him once more.

* * *

The next time he drove Lady Mary to the railway station, it was Sir Richard Carlisle who accompanied her. He barely said anything, nodding to Branson but remaining mostly silent through the journey.

Sir Richard had been a man of few words, at least to Branson. Not that he minded – in some ways it was almost a relief. But today Sir Richard looked almost nervous, wanting to ensure he arrived at the station a few minutes early.

Mary disembarked with Sir Richard, giving Branson a blithe smile and a "Thank you, Branson" as she accompanied who could only be described as her beau into the railway station.

After several minutes, Mary reappeared – looking slightly shaken. She seemed to be distracted, somehow – staring at the door for a moment after he had opened it before suddenly realizing she ought to take a seat.

"Did Sir Richard get off alright, m'lady?" he asked, conversationally – as he started the car once more.

He saw Mary blink several times in the mirror, before hurriedly responding. "Oh yes. Quite alright, thank you."

She was silent for most of the trip through the village. It was only when their route took them past Crawley House that she straightened. Her eyes grew wider, and her fingers seemed to tense against the glass. "Branson, could we—"

"Beg pardon, m'lady?" He glanced briefly behind him.

In the next moment, however, she had leaned back against the seat, replacing her hand in her lap. "It's nothing," she said, with an almost convincing smile. "Nothing at all."

* * *

The impromptu party to welcome back the missing soldiers was still in full swing, but Branson was on his way back to the garage when Carson pulled him aside. "Lady Mary has requested the car for Captain Crawley. It is…quite essential that Captain Crawley be on the three o'clock train to London."

Branson raised his eyebrows, with a surreptitious look at a clock on the table in back of them. "With all due respect, Mr. Carson – Captain Crawley is never going to make that train."

"Well, then – I will leave you to resolve that particular conundrum for yourself." Carson inclined his head towards the door to reveal Matthew, looking anxiously out the door.

Sighing, Branson made his way as quickly as he could to the garage, and had pulled the car in front of the house.

He would have thought Matthew simply didn't see the car, except he appeared to be staring straight out at it. After a moment, Branson parked and opened his door – hoping it might coax Matthew into action.

Finally, Matthew pushed open the door to the house and clambered into the backseat without a word. Blessedly, Branson shut the door and climbed back into the driver's seat.

Branson put the car in gear and began driving down the gravel path a bit faster than usual. "Lady Mary says you're to be on the three o'clock train."

Matthew looked almost startled. "Oh?" he said, his brow furrowing, before repeating, "Oh. Yes, of course."

"So we'll have to make haste if you're to arrive on time," Branson explained, swerving onto the road. The last time he'd driven so quickly was when Lady Sybil had been injured…

He was silent, but of course Branson could hardly blame him for that.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the railway station, and Branson parked it with a flourish.

Matthew didn't move.

"Here we are, Captain Crawley." Branson offered, with a shaky laugh.

Still, Matthew remained in the backseat.

"Sir," Branson said a bit more firmly. "I'm afraid you may miss your train to London."

"…London!" Matthew repeated, with a too sudden smile on his face. "Yes – yes, of course. Thank you."

As he got out of the car and was walking to the railway station, Branson thought he caught the hint of a familiar tune wafting through the air – as if carried through the atmosphere on engine smoke.

* * *

The servant's hall was as melancholy as he'd ever seen it. News had spread throughout the night – filtering through the village so that it seemed everyone knew by now.

He liked William, of course – never had a bad word to say about anyone. And Captain Crawley was alright – though he never seemed to say much.

Mrs. Hughes bustled into the room, and the two exchanged sympathetic smiles. "Good morning, my lad," she greeted him, sorrowfully. "Lord Grantham has requested the car to take Lady Mary down to hospital."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," he gamely agreed, with a brief nod.

Branson spotted Lady Mary outside as he was near the bottom of the pathway. She was stock still, except for her white-knuckled grip on a little drawstring bag.

She was halfway to the door almost the moment he parked the car. "Good morning, Branson." Her smile was warm, though her eyes were red and tired, and she looked especially pale – as if she'd slept very little the previous night.

"Good morning, m'lady." He attempted a tone that was simultaneously cheerful and somber.

After several minutes, Mary commented, "It's a beautiful day, is it not?" Her voice sounded weak, as if forming speech was a great effort, but her smile held steady as she spoke.

He nodded. "If you say so, m'lady."

Mary's gaze turned toward the window, her smile faltering only the slightest bit. "I should think…" she began, taking a breath. "It will be quite a lovely sight…for anyone to see." Her voice seemed on the verge of breaking, but it held steady.

Branson offered a small smile of his own. "I should think so, m'lady."

She smiled back, before it seemed to become too great an effort, and she let herself fall slack against the window. Her hand came up to her face, as if to shield her eyes. Though when she turned, the tracks of her tears still glistened in the morning sunlight.

* * *

At least, he supposed, it was a chance to get out of the village – to see more of the county. But the drive over to Haxby Park had been near intolerable.

Lady Mary had wished him to wait – Sir Richard wanted him to return in an hour. Lady Mary said fifteen minutes. Sir Richard said a half-hour. Then Lady Mary said it didn't matter how long or short the trip was, as long as Branson remained with the car.

Somehow, Sir Richard acquiesced to her demands.

He guessed it was between fifteen and twenty minutes later when they reemerged – Sir Richard looking satisfied, and Lady Mary particularly anxious.

"Well, then – let's be off," Mary suggested, her eyes straight ahead.

Richard raised his eyebrows. "Actually, Branson – I'm rather fancying a tour around the area. What do you say, my dear? Shall we explore our new estate?"

Mary gave him the most charming smile. "Perhaps another time. For now, I think we should be getting back."

Branson paused for a moment, but since Lord Grantham was his employer, he reckoned in this case, Lady Mary's word was final.

They had not been driving for five minutes when Richard asked, "Branson, I wondered if we might stop in the village before we return to the house."

Now Mary seemed to be glaring at him, before smiling at Branson. "I'm quite certain you can take Sir Richard to the village _after_ we return to the house."

"Why?" Richard asked, seemingly innocently. "I should think anyone would find a trip to the village far more enjoyable than anything back at the house."

She bristled. "For you, perhaps. But not necessarily for me."

"Very well." Richard seemed to lean back against the seat, sensing when he'd been defeated.

Branson could only conceal a small smirk as he continued to drive.

* * *

He accompanied Sybil to Lavinia's funeral as a good faith gesture, though he had to admit it seemed rather strange to be standing and conversing with those he used to drive around.

The haze of near constant joy in which he'd been living for weeks had been wretchedly interrupted by this sudden tragedy.

His mind was so full – full of Sybil, full of Lord Grantham and his blessing, full of home and Ireland and the marriage he'd always dreamed of – that he was almost surprised to see Lady Mary making her way out of the cemetery, gripping Sir Richard's arm as if a stiff breeze might blow her away if she let go.

She stopped to chat with Sybil for a moment, and he gave them their space.

As she embraced her sister, she allowed herself the barest glance back at the man still keeping vigil over the grave – and for a moment, she looked as if she might break free and join him (either that or jump in herself).

But the moment passed quickly as she turned away, continuing her walk back up to the house with slow, but steady steps.

* * *

"Well done, darling." Mary embraced Sybil – his wife, Sybil, his beautiful bride – and nodded briefly to him. Well, it was a start.

Sybil was practically beaming. "And what news of home? Come, Mary – you must tell me everything!"

"I'm not sure there's much to tell," Mary responded. "We are as you left us."

"Both of us unmarried," Edith put in, with just a hint of spite.

Mary laughed lightly. "Oh yes, Sir Richard and I have decided to postpone."

"Again?" Sybil couldn't help but ask. "But it was supposed to be the autumn, was it not?"

"Oh, who wants to be married in autumn? It's so dreary," Mary commented. "No, I think the new year will suit us best. 1920." Her eyebrows flicked upwards as she commented, with the slightest touch of mockery, "The chance to start fresh – to start anew."

Sybil gave her sister one of her patented warm smiles. "As long as you're happy, Mary," she said, linking her arm through his – as she turned to him, practically glowing with happiness.

It was next to impossible not to glow right back.

* * *

"You've a letter from your sister," Branson announced, as he went through the post. Sybil was lying on the settee – radiant from her condition, but overcome by its resulting symptoms.

Sybil groaned as she seemed to drag herself up to a sitting position. "From Mary?" she wondered.

He nodded, handing her the letter, and taking a seat beside her.

Her brow furrowed, as she opened the letter – her eyes skimming over its contents. Suddenly, they grew impossibly large, and a delighted giggle bubbled from her throat. "Oh my word, I don't believe it!"

She was grinning from ear to ear – looking the most alert she had in days, as if the letter had somehow broken through the stupor of sickness that surrounded her.

"What is it?" he wanted to know.

His wife clutched the letter in one hand, almost crinkling the paper. "Mary and Matthew are engaged! Oh, Tom – I must write to her. Will you fetch me some paper so I can write to her?"

Branson frowned, seemingly confused. "I thought your sister was engaged to Sir Richard Carlisle."

"That's what I thought, but…well, she doesn't say really – oh, but what does it matter? " Sybil exclaimed, delightedly. "Mary and Matthew were always meant to be together, don't you see – just as you and I were."

She took his hand, squeezing it fondly, and he leaned over to give her a quick kiss before retrieving some paper, and a pen as requested.

"I simply can't believe it, Tom. So many things kept them apart. And now they're getting married – after so many years!"

Branson allowed his mind to drift back, culling what limited memories he had of the happy couple that had never been a couple.

"So many years," he repeated, grinning to himself.

The End.


End file.
